38 FEßRVARY 2. 5, I 9 (, 7 HEADS I TRIM, FRAILS YOU LOSE the kind she dotes on. Yes, I wil1. (Hangs up with a snort) What an ass he is, this charcutier! Are his veal chops so momentous, then, as to merit a tele- phone call? One would think he had an ulterior motive, perish the thought. As all the world knows, there is no wom- an in all P érigord more devoted to her mate than my little Olympe. Her divine form is easily superior to this Claudia Cardinale's, succulent albeit the latter is. ( He resumes his inspection of the, as zt were, Roman beautzes. The phone rings again.) Botheration-this place is becoming as frenzied as the Bourse. . . . Hello? . . . Our what? . . . Our nettoyeur de voisinage (neighbor- hood dry cleaner)? . . . Yes, M. Li- bidineux? . . . But that's preposterous, my dear fellow. How could Madame ha ve asked you to clean a shag rug we do not own? Palpably your records are sens dessus dessous ( topsy-tur- vy). . . . No, it's quite all right. (Dis- connects) Curious person, that- I dislike his oily tongue. And also hIs business methods, come to think of it. vVhy does he always pick up and de- liver after I've gone to work? A sus- picion is beginning to gnaw at me that this M. Libidineux is not altogether SIncere. However, let us return to our muttons. (As applied to Miss Cardi- nale, the term zs a desecration, but Perdant is too benighted to know which end is up. Ashe reopens the journal, the phone again peals.) Nom de Dieu, the clamor here is insupportable.... Hello? . . . Hello! . . . Who is that on the line? . . . Don't pretend, whoever you are-I can hear you breathing. (Enraged) So you won't talk? Very wel1, then, go soak your head! (Slams up receiver) A VOICE: And keep your own still, idiot. How do you expect these feelers to function if you thresh around like a trout? ARISTIDE (dumfounded): Who's that? VOICE : Your Auto-Coiffeur, of course. Who'd you think it was-the Angel Gabnel? ARISTIDE: B-but I don't under- stand. Nobody ever told me there was a vocal attachment on the machine. AUTO-COIFFEUR: Look, Charlie, all this gizmo up here does the work of a human being, n' est-ce pas? And if they omitted the power of speech, partIcularly a barber's, the customer'd hardly know he was getting a haircut, would he? ARISTIDE: Say, that figures. My, but science is a wonderful thing. AlTTO-COIFFEUR: Nicely put-you have quite a gift of gab yourself. .l\Jl right, let's proceed with the trim. By the way, getting a trifle thin on top, aren't you? ARISTIDE: If you look real close, there's some fuzz growing back. Olympe massages it every week with a preparation we get from the apothecarv. A{TTO-COIFFE{TR: "Tho, the Corsican? Good-look- ing fellow with dImples r ARISTIDE: I never no- ticed any dimp- Why do you ask? AUTO-COIFFEUR: Oh, nothing-n 0 t hi n g at all. Nice weather we're having. i\RISTIDE: Yes, but the farmers could use some raIn. AUTO-COIFFEUR: Both- er the farmers. V\That about us mechanical barbers? I don't see anyone losing any sleep over our problems. ARISTIDE (nodding): Nor us bicycle people's. Be- A French engineer has designed an automatic machine to cut every customer's hair according to his own recorded pattern. Patent 3,241,562 granted this week to Jean Gronier of Versailles shows a man <;eated in an armchair, with clippers and combs held by overhead apparatus. . . . A trimming comb, the patent explains, makes a forward raking movement through the hair; but in the case of hair that is "cut short in a stubble and brushed straight up from the forehead" the comb is of no use and is held out of the "Tay. The client is expected to keep "feelers" in contact with his scalp and to refrain from substantial movements of his head.-The Times. SCENE: T he kitchen of a small dwelling in southwestern France. As the curtain rises, Aristide Perdant, the proprietor of the local bicycle shop, is disclosed at center bowed under an Auto-Coiffeur, a sinister webwork of feelers, clippers, combs, and scissors that brings to mind one of Max Ernst's col- lages. While the mechanism partially obscures A ristide' s face, enough is vis i- blr below to explazn whence derives the family name of Perdant, or "Loser;" this is a man clearly predestined for insolvency and a pazr of antlers. At the moment, a photograph of Claudia Cardinale, in Paris-Match, silhouetted against the sunset engages him so com- pletely that he is insensible to the phone ringing at his elbow. Disentangling him- self finally with an effort, he answers. X ISTIDE: Hello?.. Who?.. Speak up-why are you whis- O? N h o 0 , M penng 0 ... 0, t IS Isn t me. Perdant, it's her husband. . . . Oh, M. Trompemari, the butcher-yes, yes, of course. Well, give me the message and I'll telI her when she returns.... You're saving an order of veal chops, ,'i (, 7' '.rt ! 1 {, ., I ,"/ \ ..' ./ , :.;,.' .t t "" , " J <t t II THINK tl , -.' J -- ....' --.. , - I ', '" f , 1út'l- CCNlay I see you before you start thinking, Mr. Gibson?"